Not All Wars
by ladygris
Summary: . . . .are fought with bullets. Clint manages to start a war he might not be able to finish. Part of the New York State of Mind series. On hiatus!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing related to Marvel or The Avengers. I'm just playing in their sandbox.

**Author's Note:** So, yesterday, we went to see part of my husband's family. While there, his aunt told us a story of something she did in her younger years. As she told us about it, all I could think was "This is SO something I need to write!" So, thanks to her and my husband—**Lithane—**for the plot in this story's also beta'd by **theicemenace**, to whom I'm very grateful.

This story is set in my New York State of Mind universe and happens approximately five years before the movie.

Enjoy! ~lg

oOo

"Barton. . . ."

Clint glanced up at Natasha's whine. She sat at his desk on the Helicarrier, shoulders slumped and head in her hands. "We're almost done."

"I really, _really_ wanted to be asleep before two."

He looked at the clock. Two-oh-five. "One more."

"Three wasn't enough?"

"Always better to have more ammunition than you need." He kept his eyes on his hands, ignoring the sensation of her glare. She had that effect, and it never failed to unnerve him. Maybe, one day, he'd figure out how she got under his skin. After ten years, it had begun to look like a hopeless cause, but he was determined.

A few careful moves more, and he sat back with a satisfied grin. "There."

"Finally!"

Clint snickered at the overplayed relief in Natasha's voice. "Yes, I'm done. You can go to bed now."

She made a rude gesture as she headed for the door.

He couldn't stop the laugh even if he'd wanted. "Love you too!"

The door closed before he heard Natasha's response.

Shaking his head, Clint stood from his spot sprawled across his bed and headed for the bathroom. It really _was_ later than he'd intended, and he still needed a shower. They'd been in Baghdad that morning, completing a mission, only to return to this latest development. After hearing the details, Clint decided to have as much information and back-up as possible—hence why he'd forced Natasha to sit up with him while he prepared.

He really hated these things, and anything he could do to make it better was a must. But this. . . .Clint grinned as he finished his shower. _This_ was going to be _epic_!

oOo

The following afternoon was beautiful and sunny in Central Park. Clint appeared at the right time, a bag carefully tossed over his shoulder and his sunglasses in place. He spotted Romanoff on the other side of the field and ignored her. She knew her part in this and wouldn't compromise his position. Just as he wouldn't compromise hers. That trust had been born years before either of them joined SHIELD.

The target entered the park from the opposite direction, smiling and waving at his buddies while a group gathered around him. Clint let his eyes slide toward Natasha, and she nodded ever so slightly.

Clint smirked. _Let the games begin._

Within only a few moments, teams had been organized, and Clint found himself on the pitcher's mound. Agent Hill had been put in charge of SHIELD's team building exercises this year. Clint hated team building any year, primarily because the "exercises" usually consisted of things he did on a daily basis. There was no real competition. But softball. . . .Hill had played as a teen and loved the game. And it only made Clint's plans even easier to accomplish.

With the summer sun beating on his shoulders, Clint wound up and threw the first pitch. As the best marksman in SHIELD, his team had elected him as their pitcher. He could put the ball wherever anyone wanted. Fury was team captain and acting catcher, making everyone who came to bat more than a little nervous. SHIELD's director milked it for all it was worth, and Clint caught the glimmer of amusement in his visible eye as the other team struck out within the first three players. Coulson, that team's captain, glared at Fury _and_ Clint, promising that there _would_ be payback.

Clint made sure to bump into Coulson as the teams traded places. "Psychological warfare," he murmured. "You taught me that."

"Oh, just wait," Coulson replied.

Clint smirked as he took his first turn up to bat. He hit the ball with a very satisfying smack, and Sitwell raced after it as Clint dashed toward first base. He gauged just how far outfield the ball had gone and made it to second before deciding he wouldn't push his luck. Besides, Fury had claimed the bat after Clint and had an inscrutable look on his face. With only one pitch, Fury managed to bring Clint home as well as making the home run himself. SHIELD's director looked completely out of place in solid black, but he showed uncharacteristic sportsmanship by waving at the cheering audience.

Most of SHIELD's employees based out of New York City had turned out today, but only a few had signed up to play softball. Probably because Clint and Natasha's names were on the top of the list, right below Fury and Coulson. It just made the game that much more enjoyable, and Clint reveled in the burn of his skin in the sun and the way his muscles stretched in unfamiliar but oh-so-welcome ways. Softball—and sports in general—had never really been a part of Clint's life even though he enjoyed them. He'd just never had time.

Clint waited until the bottom of the ninth to make his move. By then, the ball had been battered enough that he could justify switching it out. If asked, he planned to say he couldn't quite grip it right. No one asked, though, and he gave Natasha the prearranged signal. She ran the new ball out to him, and he glanced around. _Bases loaded, Coulson up to bat. Perfect!_

Behind Coulson, Fury signaled for a fastball. Clint wasn't certain he could pull that off right now, but he'd try his best. The ball he now held had been. . .modified. . .in the hours Clint and Natasha had bickered the previous evening. It had taken far too long to take out all those stitches and then return them back to their semi-perfect condition. Clint weighed the ball in his hand, feeling the changes he'd made, and buried a smirk. If this worked out. . . .

He wound up for the pitch while Coulson gripped the bat. The ball flew true, thanks to a few minute adjustments Clint made to the throw. Coulson kept his eyes on the ball and swung.

The ball exploded. A thick water balloon—sewn into the ball rather than its normal solid innards—rained water all over Coulson, Fury, and anyone near home plate.

On the pitcher's mound, Clint grinned and wildly fist-pumped the air, too gleeful with the success of his prank to even make a sound. It had worked out _so_ much better than he'd expected!

Then, the silence hit him. He glanced around as every person there stared open-mouthed while Coulson and Fury both stood in stunned silence. Coulson blinked water out of his eyes, and Fury shook out his coat. The water was likely cool enough it had shocked both men the moment they'd been doused.

Clint straightened, barely able to contain the grin as he waited for the reaction. All around them, the cheering had died off while men and women watched. Fury was feared, and Coulson caused grown men to tremble in their shoes if he so desired. To see both of them so surprised. . . .

Then, in the silence, everyone heard it: a low growl, followed by shaking shoulders as Fury began to laugh. A collective sigh of relief went up as SHIELD's director stood behind home plate letting out a deep belly laugh that had a slightly evil sound to it. Then, he met Clint's eyes. "It's on, Barton."

Clint smirked. "Bring it."

His team won the game, thanks to the rest of the batters being afraid to hit the ball. But Clint knew. Fury would get payback for that prank. Still, it was the talk of SHIELD for the next few months, and Clint gained a new level of respect in the newbies' eyes. After all, he'd been bold enough to prank two of the most feared men in the organization.

Within months, the incident was relegated to the unofficial Hall of Fame, and Clint continued his career with Natasha as his partner. But, in the back of his mind, he never forgot that Fury had promised revenge. And he _knew_ it would be spectacular when it came.

He hoped he was ready with a better prank when it did.

~TBC


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Apologies to those of you I promised for a Monday posting. My RL exploded over the weekend. Just a heads up to everyone. . . .This story is going to be on-going. In other words, there won't be regular updates. Just as the ideas hit me. I do have quite a few right now, thanks to **theicemenace**, who is also responsible for the last line of this chapter. But, as I dig into the fourth New York State of Mind story, the updates will slow down.

Also, if you have any ideas for pranks, please PM them to me. You never know what might show up!

One more note: **Qweb** pointed out a minor flaw in my baseball/softball knowledge, which I've tried to correct here. If I'm again wrong, just let me know, and I'll tweak the chapter. :)

**assantra:** The prank got even better! LOL! My husband's aunt also had softballs filled with newspaper! And she placed a fifth of bourbon on one of the bases to get one of the girls to run faster!

**Guest:** That's just something I can see Fury saying.

As always, hope you enjoy! ~lg

oOo

One year later. . . .

The Second Annual SHIELD Softball Game turned out quite different from the first. Sign ups for teams began several months in advance, and the story of how Barton pranked both Fury and Coulson again made the rounds. The archer was barely there to enjoy all the attention however. He'd been sent to Madrid several months ago and nearly died. But he managed to recover in time to pitch for one of the teams.

This year, Agent Hill guarded the softballs and refused any bribes otherwise. And, unlike the previous year when Barton wound up pitching for both teams due to the other pitcher's minor injury, the team assignments were handed out early enough that both sides practiced and had jerseys made. Coulson and Fury ended up on the same team this time around, and Natasha was called away at the last minute.

The day of the game, Fury arrived at the ball field early and simply watched as everyone else appeared.

Hill beat him there, of course, and directed all of the activities with the same precision she displayed on the Helicarrier. This year, several grills provided families with hot dogs and burgers while children enjoyed jumping balloons and games. The anticipated pranks had brought out more people this year, and Fury smiled when he saw the speculative glances. Most expected him to get some sort of retribution for Barton's prank the previous year, but he'd kept any such plans under wraps. Truth was, he _did_ plan retribution, but he simply needed Barton to get comfortable.

As game time approached, Fury gathered with his team. Once again, he'd been appointed as team captain, and he caught Coulson's subtle grin at the assignments. Both men had a mission, and they would see it completed.

oOo

Clint watched his opponents huddle together. How had Coulson _and_ Fury wound up on the same team? Had they paid off Hill? Or was it just cosmic good luck? Either way, he'd been unable to plan for this year's game and hoped he hadn't shown up to the job unprepared. But nearly dying thanks to a knife slipped through his ribs really made it tough to plan the pranks when just breathing hurt.

Turning his attention to his own team, he handed out assignments and tried to place his players in their strongest positions. They unanimously agreed he should pitch, and he planned on putting a few Barton spins on several key balls. He'd been practicing that, at least, and knew just how to do it without betraying his tactics. The rest of his team had been briefed on expected shenanigans, and Clint was reasonably certain they could come through victorious. It would just be a fight the entire way.

Clint again threw the opening pitch and immediately found himself engaged in battle from the very beginning. As before, Fury insisted on catching, and the director used his position in SHIELD to shamelessly intimidate Clint's team. Clint ignored Fury as much as possible and scored the only point in his team's favor during the first inning. He trudged back to the dugout after the fourth batter struck out and met all of their eyes. "_Ignore_ them!"

"Sir!" One of the younger agents he'd been stuck with frowned. "It's the Director and _Coulson_. You don't ignore them!"

"You do today."

Clint glared at his team as they took the outfield the second time. When this game was done, he was _so_ having a talk with Hill about stacking the deck against them.

He got a bit of revenge pitching, managing to throw the odds in his team's favor just a touch. But Fury nailed a home run the second time up to bat in spite of Clint's best efforts. It undid all the favor Clint had just gathered up.

And so the game went. Clint would make up a few points when he was up to pitch, and he blatantly ignored Fury and Coulson when it was his turn to bat. But his team consistently lagged behind by several points thanks to several of the greener agents unable to ignore Fury. Fortunately, none of the expected pranks appeared, and Clint breathed a bit easier. He'd healed up from Madrid fairly well, but the scar could get sore with too much exertion. And pitching a softball game against Fury and Coulson was apparently too much exertion.

At the bottom of the eighth, Clint changed up the batting order. Coulson stood at third base, happily catching enough balls to put his opponents out of the game. Clint glanced around, seeing the loaded bases and staring at Sitwell on the pitcher's mound. He could feel Fury's intense glare on the back of his head and pushed it from his mind. He sparred regularly with Natasha; he could handle this.

Sitwell sent a _beautiful_ pitch his way. Clint swung, the bat connecting solidly with the ball and sending it sailing toward the back fence. He took off toward first while the outfielders scrambled to catch it. They failed, and it landed so far out someone would have to have a phenomenal arm to get it back in time to stop Clint from making a home run. With his teammates touching home base and scoring points—enough points to make up the difference—Clint jogged around first and headed toward second. Coulson stepped away from third base and motioned to the outfielder currently holding the ball. Clint smirked and, glancing at the cheering stands, put on a bit of speed.

Seeing the outfielder winding up to throw the ball to Coulson, Clint decided this was it. The stands quieted as he put every ounce of strength he had in running toward third base. If he could get past Coulson, he could get home.

His foot had barely touched the third base when the ground exploded in a blast of white.

oOo

At home base, Fury stood with a self-satisfied smile as Barton skidded to a halt on the opposite side of a cloud of flour. Every inch of the archer was covered in the stuff. His hair stood on end, sweat already turning the flour into paste. Barton's mouth flapped open a few times as he blinked, and his eyes seemed dark against the white.

With the stands quiet save for a few brave snickers, Fury closed the detonator in his hand. He'd worked closely with Coulson on this op, rigging the third base to explode with a flour bomb at just the right time. But Barton had needed to be. . .prepared. Now that he was, Fury watched with absolute glee as Coulson caught the ball and calmly walked over to the stunned archer. Reaching out, SHIELD's most frightening handler lightly tapped Barton's shoulder. "You're out."

Barton spun to face his handler. "You _knew_?!"

Coulson, with the most blasé expression he'd ever worn, tipped his head ever so slightly to one side. "Hmm."

Barton blinked again at Coulson's noncommittal hum.

With the game brought to a temporary standstill, Fury calmly collapsed the antenna on the detonator he still held. As he tucked it away in his pocket, he met Barton's eyes. "Now," he said as Barton's team headed for the dugout, "we're even."

The game resumed, and Barton's team lost. Much to Fury's great delight. The entire time, Barton was forced to stand outside in the hot sun while flour and his sweat mingled to create a past and very hard coating all over his body. The archer disappeared as soon as the game ended, and the "ghost of Barton" became the talk of the entire gathering.

The following morning, Fury stood in his customary spot on the Helicarrier bridge. Romanoff had returned from her mission with information that required Barton's delicate touch. While she, along with Fury, Coulson, and Hill, waited, they informed her of Fury's revenge. Her eyes grew round as Coulson described it with as much enthusiasm as he ever showed, but even his voice trailed off when Barton reached the bridge.

Fury folded his arms in an attempt to hide his smirk.

Hill's jaw dropped.

Romanoff actually chuckled. "What happened to you?"

Barton, with his head freshly shaved, glowered at his two superior agents. "What happens when flour and water meet?"

Romanoff's chuckle turned into a barely-contained laugh. "They make a paste."

"In. My. _Hair_!" Barton glared at her as he pointed at his head. "It _dried_ in my hair! Do you _know_ how hard it is to get dried flour _out_ of your hair?!"

"Yes, actually, I do," Romanoff replied dryly.

Coulson cleared his throat. "Agent Barton, are you up for a mission briefing, or do you want to mourn your hair a bit more?"

To his credit, Barton turned his attention to the matter at hand. His professionalism about his line of work never failed to surprise—or impress—Fury. Through the rest of the briefing, Barton was calm and attentive, asking every question they'd expected. Who was the target? Where was the hit to take place? Secondary and tertiary targets? Timing? Barton mentioned anything related to an assassination and how it could possibly backfire, never once complaining about his newly-shorn head. But, as he and Romanoff filed out, Fury caught his whine. "Nat! It's my _hair_!"

A quick glance at Coulson showed the handler with a rare grin of glee on his face. Fury met his eyes and nodded sagely, both men understanding what this meant.

A year ago, Barton had played a prank without realizing he would open Pandora's box. And, now that he had, he was reevaluating the cost of that prank. Fury buried a grin when, just at the edge of his hearing, he caught Barton say, "Oh, it is _so_ on!" After a pause, in which Barton likely glanced at the Black Widow, he added, "Wanna help?"

~TBC


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note:** So, as I was writing this chapter, the story took a slightly different turn. Don't worry—it's going to stay fun and lighthearted. With everything else going on in my life right now, I kind of need that. But. . .Well, you'll see.

**Guest:** Thank you! I know having Nat away for a mission was a bit convenient, but Fury would pick a convenient time. Don't worry. . . She'll get involved sooner or later.

As always, hope you all enjoy the chapter! ~lg

oOo

Maria Hill was not as cold as everyone believed. She hated the moniker "Ice Queen" even as she believed wholeheartedly in order and professionalism. While she smiled on duty, she kept personal interactions to a minimum. Her position as Fury's assistant left her with a very small peer group, and most of them spent their off-duty time away from the Helicarrier. Besides, she and Romanoff had never really seen eye-to-eye, and Coulson didn't exactly invite casual conversation. Maria had seen him goofing off with Barton a time or two, but Barton tended to bring out the best—or worst—in people.

Still, it took everything Maria had to _not_ laugh when Barton showed up the day after SHEILD's second softball game. Seeing the archer bemoaning the loss of his hair amused her, but Fury's sheer delight caused her to shiver. SHIELD's director was not known for his sense of humor, but Maria knew better than anyone that he did have one. Out of her peer group, she had developed a closer bond to Fury than the others. Fury could get in her face one moment, rage at her to get out of his office the next, and stop to quietly whisper a joke or funny anecdote an hour later. That mercurial nature made him the perfect choice to lead SHIELD and corral such dynamic personalities as the Black Widow, Hawkeye, and Phil Coulson. And, ironically, it worked.

The next several weeks were quiet as Romanoff and Barton both headed back out for their missions. The personnel chuckled privately over the loss of Barton's hair, and Maria rolled her eyes. Seriously, who knew the archer would be so touchy about it? It would grow back—had started growing back. It had reached that irritating stage when it wouldn't lay flat, giving Barton the look of a five-year-old in trouble. In Maria's estimation, it took years from his face. He typically resembled a ten-year-old in trouble.

The softball game took place in June, and Barton was sent to Colombia in July. He worked with local military intelligence officers to free a bunch of political figures from FARC, Colombia's Marxist-Leninist revolutionaries. He returned to the Helicarrier no worse for the wear, escorting one of SHIELD's own who had been freed along with a former Colombian presidential candidate. The candidate went on to gain more international fame, but Barton happily left the incident in the past. Maria finished collating the reports on the mission and set them on Fury's desk late evening two days after Barton's return.

The next morning, she reported for duty and took her place on the bridge. Her position as deputy to the director had many perks, but it also had one major drawback: boredom. Unless something major happened, she was responsible for the day-to-day running of the Helicarrier while Fury handled the big cases. The problem with having such good coworkers became the inability to give orders because they already knew what to do. Most of the time, Maria liked that. Today, it bugged her.

Fury appeared at his normal time, not blinking an eye when Maria gave him a nod. It had been tough to determine when he arrived every morning. For several months after her promotion, she'd struggled to figure out just when Nick Fury slept. It had ultimately taken three days of little to no sleep before she learned the director was messing with her. When she, in her exhaustion, confronted him about it, he'd simply laughed, said she would fit right in, and promptly told her to go to bed.

Since then, they'd had a sort of understanding. Maria did her job and made certain everything ran according to plan. In return, Fury actually slept and stopped micromanaging her job. It worked out better than anyone could have anticipated.

Today, Fury accepted Maria's nod and headed for his office. The director rarely used it, preferring to stand on the bridge and be intimidating. But both Romanoff and Barton had filed reports the previous evening, and even Fury wanted to know how Barton became good friends with a Colombian politician.

The door wasn't even closed behind Fury when a shout, accompanied by some very creative and multilingual cursing, came from the office. Maria rushed forward and used her override to open the door. Only a few people had one, and she'd never used hers—until today. As Fury's aide, she had authority to enter his office without his permission on the off chance something happened to him.

Now, she stared with more than a little dread as Nick Fury _laughed_. Over the last year-and-a-half—ever since Barton filled a softball with a water balloon—SHIELD had learned that its director did have a sense of humor. It just rarely showed itself. But today. . . .Maria made a mental note to scrub any and all surveillance video from the archives.

Fury's office chair was scattered around him, a few nuts and bolts still spinning on the floor. The director himself sat spread-eagled on the ground, the only thing keeping him from flopping backward being the still-attached back of his chair. The rest of it had obviously. . .Well, _disintegrated_ wasn't quite the right word, though it applied. From what Maria could tell, the entire support system of the chair had fallen into its individual components the moment Fury's weight settled in it.

Fury turned to Maria, all traces of amusement gone. "Where's Barton?"

Maria glanced at Sitwell, who had rushed into the office with her. When he shrugged, she met Fury's eyes. "I'll find him."

"No." Fury held up a hand and gracefully stood, glaring at anyone who thought to help him get to his feet. "No, I'll handle this. Thank you, Agent Hill."

"Yes, Sir." Maria ushered out the few agents brave enough to rush to Fury's aid and glared them all back into their seats. As they settled, she met Sitwell's eyes and bit her lip to keep from grinning.

Somehow, with just a few small pranks, Barton had managed to turn SHIELD's rather terrifying director into a normal human. She knew that Fury appreciated that, though he would never say so. He enjoyed intimidating the junior agents, but having one of his elite assassins see him as human enough to prank him. . . .Maria refused to step into that relationship. Fury might admire Barton for his skills and audacity, but even _she_ knew that Director Fury had the last word. Always.

She allowed a small grin to escape. SHIELD had a very active betting pool. She wondered if she could find a way to cash in because this was going to be _good_!

~TBC


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** A huge apology to those of you who have waited so patiently for an update. As I said in my last chapter, I knew postings on this one would slow down. I had to leave town for a family event, and then Camp NaNoWriMo started up on the first. So, between my story for that and recovering from a crazy March, I just haven't been focusing too much on this.

A quick note about my Camp NaNo project: I am writing a Mission:Impossible fanfic focusing on Renner's character of William Brandt. I don't plan to post the first chapter until I hit my fifty-thousand word goal, and I'm already just under halfway there. So, sometime before the end of April (I hope), there'll be another long story from me posting.

As always, hope you enjoy this chapter, and don't forget to leave me your thoughts! ~lg

oOo

In spite of some rather colorful and creative rumors floating about, Nick Fury was a normal man. With the exception of one major difference, he bled, slept, ate, and had emotions like every other person on board the Helicarrier. He didn't mind the rumors, though, because a man in his position needed to seem powerful and untouchable. Still, in spite of this, he'd managed to form a few notable relationships. Maria Hill was his right hand and the one with whom he shared jokes. Phil Coulson represented SHIELD and, by default, Fury in the field. The agent also sparred with Nick on occasion and offered a safe commiseration partner when needed. Agent Romanoff was still a mystery to everyone save Barton, and Barton. . . .

Fury smirked as the archer passed him headed for the shower. Nick had come down to the gym for his typical morning workout and found Barton already up and pounding on a punching bag. Fury couldn't know what demons had awakened the other man, but Barton seemed to be in a decent mood. In fact, he stopped to chat with Sitwell and mentioned arriving home around one that morning. _So, he hasn't been awakened; he's just heading to bed. Perfect._

As the archer trudged past him to the showers, Fury gave the other man his privacy. Once Barton was in the shower, however, he reached for his earpiece. "Coulson? Now would be perfect."

Coulson responded immediately. "_Typical location_?"

"Yes." Fury idly thought that Barton should know better than to become a creature of habit.

"_Roger that_." Coulson's voice sounded evil and oh-so-thrilled to be helping with this. "_Activating program in three. . .two. . .one_."

Fury grinned and the other agents in the locker room jumped when a startled shout came from the end stall. A moment later, Barton appeared, water and soap dripping into his face and towel wrapped around his waist. He cursed in several languages, including English, as he looked for the culprit. When he met Fury's eyes, he froze. His glare told the Director that he would get his revenge. Nick Fury merely smirked again, his message clear.

_Looking forward to it._

oOo

Clint stood in the men's locker room, staring at the shower as Fury waltzed out the door. He knew what this was: retribution for the Director's chair. But did it have to be _this_ shower on _this_ day?

He and Nat had been in China, charming a Chinese heiress out of stolen SHIELD specs for a new rocket. The specs had gone missing when one of SHIELD's researchers abandoned ship. Clint had been forced to go to the party this time around with Natasha watching his back. The heiress was attractive enough, but she had a cruel streak that made Clint's skin crawl. After completing the mission and arriving back on base after midnight, he'd spent time collating his report and taking out his frustrations on the punching bag. It wasn't as satisfying as locking up a filthy-rich Chinese heiress, but it worked to wear him out. He had trudged into the showers intent on cleaning sweat from his body and collapsing in bed.

Instead, Nick Fury struck.

Clint had just soaped up and added shampoo to his hair when the water, which was at a very comfortable one-hundred degrees, suddenly dropped to near freezing. Or so it felt. _Of all the days. . ._

Even as he glared at the offending shower, Clint admitted it was a great prank. Everything on the Helicarrier was controlled by computers, and it would be easy to program this particular shower to deliver very cold water to its unsuspecting occupant. Clint reached inside when he heard the laughter from other men in the locker room and felt the water.

It was warm, so he ducked back under the spray and rinsed the shampoo from his eyes. They'd be red for the rest of the day, but that didn't bother him since he planned on studying the backs of his eyelids for hours on end. Sighing with relief as the water maintained its steady temperature, he let the tension drain from his shoulders and couldn't help laughing when one junior agent slipped on the puddle of water and soap he'd left behind when he'd been forcibly ejected from his shower.

After the agent picked himself up from the floor and ducked out of the locker room with an embarrassed mumble, Clint decided he needed to get some sleep. He slapped a hand over the faucet and cheerfully stole someone else's towel—it was clean—in order to dry off. He made note of the owner and planned to anonymously return it after he'd laundered it.

Just as he walked out of the locker room, he saw Sitwell head to the same shower stall. Hanging back to watch what happened, he wasn't disappointed when, just a few minutes in, the other agent let out a startled "_Ah_-ha!" as the water, once again, ran cold.

oOo

_So now they were including Sitwell._

_He smirked at the various reactions to the prank as Barton wandered out of the locker room and—hopefully—toward a bed. The archer looked more asleep on his feet than anything. Besides, he didn't need to see what would happen next._

_The watcher waited until the locker room had cleared before he chose his target. Today, he picked a bank of lockers three rows away from his actual target and climbed onto a stool. Seeing the bolts that held the top of the lockers together, he carefully examined them. It would take some doing to get into the locker he wanted without the owner knowing about it, but he could. With planning._

_Putting the stool back in its location, he left the locker room just as Coulson entered. Thankful the senior agent hadn't discovered him kneeling on top of the lockers, he hurried about the rest of his morning and reported for duty as always. But, in the back of his mind, he pictured his target's face when he struck and wished he could be there in person to see the fall-out._

_He had no doubt it would be epic._

~TBC


End file.
